his last name?”
“A dark green 1996 Volvo was just discovered at the bottom of a cliff near Santa Monica, and the driver, an African-American male with the name of Micah Jones, was found dead inside. He was forced off the road.”
She started hyperventilating, and Taka cursed beneath his breath. She was either going to pass out or throw up, and since they were going to be stuck in this car for a while, neither option was appealing. He couldn’t afford to slow down, either. He took the back of her neck and shoved her head down as far as he could with the seat belt holding her back. “Breathe slowly,” he ordered, still driving fast. He could feel her pulse against his palm, the fluttering, racing throb of it, and he figured once she started crying she’d calm down. She kept trying to hold it in, but she was a civilian, unused to the horror that often made up his daily life. She needed the release of tears.
But she simply let him hold her down as she shook, and it wasn’t until he had an unbidden, unwanted erotic thought about cradling her head at crotch level that he let go of her, almost as if he were burned.
She sank back against the seat, her eyes wide and staring. “I killed him,” she said in a bleak voice. “I didn’t realize …”
“No, you didn’t realize,” Taka said, trying to forget about the feel of the warm skin at the back of her neck. He didn’t want to offer Summer any kind of comfort, but he couldn’t keep himself from adding, “You’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, and anyone else you involve is going to run the same kind of risks.”
“I wasn’t trying to involve anyone. I just needed to get away from here …”
“You’re going to need me for that.”
She turned to look at him. “Who the hell are you?”
Takashi wondered whether he should try the Ministry of Antiques story again, then discarded the idea. They were long past that innocent lie. The next lie he told needed to be far more plausible and deadly, or she was going to run again.
And he couldn’t afford to let that happen. At this point the only way she was going to get away from him was if she was equally safe from the brethren, and, right now, the only way that would happen was if she was dead.
“Someone who’s not going to let the Shirosama get you,” he said, which was nothing more than the truth. She just didn’t know what lengths he’d go to ensure that.
She leaned back against the seat, her color pale in the reflected city light. She didn’t ask where he was taking her, and he didn’t volunteer the information. He drove fast and well, moving through the constant traffic with the ease of someone who’d learned to drive in one of the most congested cities in the world, and she said nothing, retreating in on herself.
He still couldn’t figure out why she hadn’t cried—not once in the time he’d been with her. She’d been through more than most American women would see in a lifetime, witnessed more violence, and yet through it all she’d remained shaken but dry-eyed. He wasn’t used to it—there was something almost unnatural about her control. As long as she kept that eerie calm, she was capable of bolting, and he couldn’t afford to let that happen.
She needed to break, completely. And if the events of the last twenty-four hours hadn’t managed to do it, then he was going to have to finish the job. Until Summer Hawthorne was weeping and helpless, she was a liability.
He glanced at her pale, set profile. The lights from the oncoming cars prismed through the rain-splattered windshield, dancing across her face in shards of light and dark. Yes, he would have to break her. Or kill her.
Or maybe both.
Isobel Lambert stubbed out her cigarette, hating the taste in her mouth, the smell on her fingers, hating everything. She needed to go back to the doctor, see if there was something new she could try. She’d already gone through the patch, gum, nasal spray, hypnosis, cognitive therapy, clove cigarettes, and everything else under the sun, but nothing had stuck. She’d manage a day, a week, even three months one time, then something would happen and she’d pick them up again.
Her therapist had a glib explanation: her job. Her life was all about death. The giving of it, the ordering of it. By smoking she could atone by seeking her own death in a slower, more insidious way.
Just so much bullshit, Madame Lambert had told the good doctor. If smoking made it easier to accept the hard choices she had to make, then she’d go up to two or three packs a day. But it didn’t. Smoking just kept her hands from shaking.
O’Brien hadn’t done his job, and the bodies were piling up. Some civilian had gone over a cliff in the girl’s car, and Takashi had had to take out God knows how many of that sicko Shirosama’s mindless goons. She’d asked Taka what the fuck he thought he was doing, but he’d been avoiding her messages, and in the end, it was up to him. He had experience and cool determination, and if he was keeping the girl alive there must be a good reason.
Maybe it had been too soon to put him out in the field again, but she hadn’t had much choice. O’Brien was tailor-made for the job—he could speak and read Japanese, he had the connections, the culture. No one else even came close. His body had pretty much recovered from some of the most advanced torture the modern world could devise, and his sangfroid had never been an issue. So why didn’t he finish the job? He must still think there was a way to salvage the situation, but from half a world away Isobel couldn’t see many signs of hope. But strategy, she knew. And the only way to stop a deluded megalomaniac, if you couldn’t get close enough to kill him, was to take away his toys.
Summer Hawthorne had no idea that’s all she was. A toy, a pawn in the hands of some very dangerous people, and both sides were deadly, experienced and ready to kill her before the other could get their hands on her.
Takashi must be convinced there was something to be gained from keeping her alive, or the situation would be done with and Isobel could finish whatever open pack of cigarettes she was rationing, go back to her elegant apartment and break something.
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